


"That which is given in submission becomes a medium of defiance"

by Fides



Series: Watcherverse: Horsemen [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Dubious Consent, Horsemen Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-28
Updated: 2006-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:58:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fides/pseuds/Fides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An afternoon interlude in the Horseman's camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"That which is given in submission becomes a medium of defiance"

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Lastrega for beta-ing. All remaining mistakes most definitely my own and probably against advice.
> 
> This is probably going to be a section from the sequel to Spiritus Sancti but since it is a flashback, pretty much stand alone and it will take me so long to finish the rest of the story everyone will have forgotten I thought I would post it anyway.

In his two thousand or so years Methos had come to the conclusion that the only sane way to endure a desert noon was, like a reluctant virgin on her wedding night, to do as little as possible until it was over. Only when the Gods' ardour had diminished to a more respectable level would anyone with any sense act of their own volition. That Caspian regularly baked the few brains he had been given in the unrelenting sun proved that beyond Methos' doubt. Even Silas had the wit to follow his current pet somewhere shady to doze.

Methos didn't bother to stir from his loose sprawl as the shiver of immortal presence announced a visitor at the entrance to his tent. There had been a time when that feeling would have had him reaching for his sword. Not any more. There was no need. There was only one person in five days ride that would dare try for his head. While that particular one of his brothers was almost certainly watching him at that moment, Methos knew that his brother was also nowhere near finished with him yet. He might still die permanently at his brother's hand but, if it happened, it would not be in such simple circumstances.

Methos forced himself to relax deeper into the soft furs, a show of indifference that held just enough truth to support the lie. The scuffle of movement and a whimper were almost enough to make him look around but he wasn't willing to concede quite yet. His brother would get his attention soon enough. Until then he listened to the sounds of waking nightmares and concentrated on the soft, clinging brush of the skins against his belly and the still, heavy press of air that warmed his naked back. Leather on skin, leather whispering against leather and wood... Methos knew those sounds but so long as it wasn't his flesh the leather bit or his body the post held he no longer cared. How many years had it been since hope and horror had become acceptance and finally blood-drenched routine? Too many and yet not enough.

The desert made for long hours and longer years. It sculpted them into its image; cruel, unforgiving and deceptive. His life was ruled by a landscape of scars. Where even the hidden havens might be life, a mirage or a poisoned well. Yet at the same time it could be beautiful, the magnificence of its storms in their destructive power, the shocking ephemera of colour and activity that followed the rare rains in the rarer travelled heart. Even the sand and rock itself varied from its thousand and one shades of beige, brown and tan to sweeps of snow-pale or golden-sun and through a sunset palette of colours to swathes which were the indigo-black of a desert night. They rode over the unfading bruises of the world, signs of the punishments that the Gods had inflicted on the dunes for harbouring mankind when they had disturbed the Gods with their noise. Methos might prefer more equitable climes but there was freedom in the harshness as long as you remembered and respected where you were.

The first touch was gentle: a sword calloused hand brushing his long hair from its damp resting place on his neck. In return Methos cast a lazy eye over his visitor.

"Allow me, Brother" Kronos' voice was deceptively soft, the statement almost a question to which the answer 'no' could have been given.

Methos kept his gaze half-lidded and languorous as his brother squatted down besides him. From the corner of his eye, Methos saw him reach for the bowl of water that helped cool the tent and the chamois rag that hung over the side awaiting his slave's return. The slosh of water and the tell-tale squelch of material in his brother's hand suggested he might be waiting a while. She knew to make herself scarce when his brother visited. That was assuming she wasn't the one decorating his tent pole. Or her body. He didn't sigh, there was no point and the desert had dried his tears long ago. She had just begun to anticipate his needs as well.

"Is this your way of telling me you have killed my slave again?" Methos demanded lazily. Inconvenience rather than attachment, it was all he could afford.

Kronos chuckled. "As it happens, no. Should I try this next time?"

The water was not cool but the damp material still felt good as it was rubbed against his warmed skin. The evidence of a sun-soaked midday was wiped away from his shoulders in careful strokes, each followed by a kiss upon the newly cleaned skin as the cloth was readied for the next application. Methos arched into the touch, letting himself enjoy the moment. Kronos' mouth was soft against the nape of his neck. He could almost believe... no, things had changed, to forget that even for a second would get him killed. He had to focus on who his brother was, not who he had been.

"Mmmm," Methos agreed as the damp cloth wiped away more summer sweat and immediately after the kiss of lips brought a new sheen shivering to the surface. "I'd still gut you, though. I have better things to do with my life than teaching the same lessons over and over again."

The cloth and mouth moved further down his body, trailing across his lower back. Not just kisses now but licks and nips.

"Do you mean to the slave or me?"

Methos looked back over his shoulder. "Both," he suggested acidly.

Methos let himself see for the first time what Kronos had dragged into his tent. The imprisoned youth stared at them both wide-eyed. There was a desperate fixity to the expression which made Methos think that the slave had been told exactly what would be done to him if he did not watch as instructed. He was firmly bound and as far as Methos could see wearing nothing but his fear and someone else's blood. He was new, a prize of the last raid and, as yet, had escaped Kronos' knife or teeth. Eunuchs fetched a much higher price and it was rare for any of their male slaves, especially those claimed by Kronos, to remain uncastrated for long. Methos wondered what Kronos had planned for this one. A present for Anat perhaps or possibly just a new game Kronos wanted to play with the young man's mind.

Methos did not try to keep the look of speculation from his face as he flicked his gaze from Kronos' captive to the man himself. Kronos helped himself to Methos' shoulder again and Methos could feel the scratch of a smile.

"I want him to watch. Such a pretty object lesson." Kronos purred, the words vibrating against Methos' skin. "Compliance brings its own rewards does it not?"

Methos wondered whom the lesson was intended for but, as Kronos devoured his spine, he decided it didn't matter. Why restrict yourself to one lesson when you could teach two with a single fuck. It wasn't as if Kronos wanted an answer that Methos' body wasn't already giving him. Methos put the slave out of his mind, it was not, after all, his slavegirl – Methos found himself pleased with that thought. His current attendant showed both promise and intelligence, he was beginning to like her far too much for him to let himself keep her. Since Kronos did not seem in the mood for fraternal violence there was a good chance the girl would see another sunrise, but how many after? Did it even matter? She was mortal. She would die. It was just a matter of time.

The damp lick of cloth called Methos back from his thoughts. Automatically he spread his legs as the material caressed his buttocks. Kronos growled quietly at his action but it was not a rumble of displeasure. There was the sensation of movement above him and Methos felt the cool promise of his brother's shadow as it settled itself comfortably across his back. Rough weave prickled his inner thighs as Kronos forged a place for himself between them.

"Enjoying the view?" Methos asked disagreeably when Kronos didn't move to continue.

"Careful, Brother," Kronos warned. "This doesn't have to stay so friendly."

Methos considered Kronos' tone. There were times when he wanted the adrenaline rush of the rough, uncompromising contest which characterised his and Kronos' intermittent sexual encounters. And there were also, rare, times when he was given a choice. If Kronos really wanted to play slaveboy for the evening then it suited Methos not to stop him. He would probably pay for it later but later could be put off. And paying for it some potential time in the future was definitely preferable to doing so right then. He was in a lazy mood anyway.

"If you want to stare at my back until nightfall then go right ahead. Just wake me up when you are ready to do more than look," Methos said, careful to keep some suggestion of challenge in his tone.

The soft foretaste of shadow was replaced by the bulk of Kronos' body as he lent forwards and rested his full weight atop Methos. Methos wanted to move, to give into the instinct that screamed at him to shove Kronos off, but it was enough that he could still breathe and he wanted to keep it that way. The material between them itched at his skin like fleas and the solid, insistent mass of Kronos' erection pressed against his arse in impatient threat. Kronos' breath caressed his ear and Methos held back an instinctive shiver at the ticklish sensation.

Kronos ground his hips down pointedly. "When am I not ready, Brother?"

"My mistake," Methos rasped.

Teeth scraped the side of his neck and Methos turned his head further to give Kronos better access. The bite was hardly unexpected but Methos still bucked slightly as Kronos sucked at the soft, vulnerable flesh. Methos moaned encouragement, suddenly uncaring about the weight that pinned him. The fur beneath him had entangled his cock with hundreds of wanton fingers and he wanted to slide within their grasp. Had there been a time he didn't react like this? He thought there had been but it had been hundreds of years ago, before their games had grown claws and teeth. Now they drew blood just so they could ride the high of the energy that crackled between them at those times. Now he wanted what Kronos offered. Wanted what Kronos demanded. The adrenalin of the games they played was almost better than sex, except he wasn't sure where the one ended and the other began or how he would leave when survival demanded change.

Methos thought he had worked out the rules that they were playing by this time. It wasn't a fight for domination but a fight for submission. He had a nasty suspicion that Kronos was winning, if it could be called that. The licks and nips were heading down his body again in a meandering, drunken path. It was more maddening than the midday sun and each touch seemed to flare as bright. Too soon they were back to how they had been, Kronos kneeling behind him but no longer touching him.

"Strip," Methos ordered. It was a capitulation of sorts, a small loss for a potentially bigger gain.

He could hear the rustle of rough cloth and feel Kronos shifting between his thighs. The dull thwump of tunics finding their rightful place on the floor was clear even with the noise of the slowly re-awakening camp filtering through the tent walls. Still Kronos wriggled and, with just another muffled cough of warning, Methos felt the sucking friction of skin on skin and the hot promise of Kronos' erection, bare and hopeful, as it nestled against him. Naked, as instructed, Kronos stilled. A small huff of laughter challenging Methos to continue the charade.

"Tend me," Methos told him.

The re-moistened cloth pressed between his buttocks, spreading them slowly as it moved downwards, and as before Kronos' teasing tongue lapped at the newly cleansed flesh.

"Kronos!" Methos hissed but was ignored.

Kronos' tongue quested further, charting every plane, mound and crevice as it overwhelmed and bewitched, offering no choice but surrender as it ran from highest peak to hidden depth. Willingly subdued, Methos stifled his moan. This was how he could win this game. Even in his unpredictable moments of tenderness Kronos still needed the power that control gave him. If there came a time when Kronos no longer needed the competitive stratagems that spurred them both on, no longer needed him, then Methos would be gone before Kronos inevitably took his head. Until then Methos did what he needed to do and, for the century and the moment, that meant staying with the Horseman and keeping Kronos happy. Or at least what passed for happy in Kronos' unique but twisted mind. And as Kronos had said – there were advantages.

Damp material wound over and around his balls, suddenly colder that it had ever seemed before. Wiping away the sweat in caressing, possessive manipulations it was wrapped into a constricting pouch that was almost tighter than his skin. Methos loved the binding pull, if for no other reason than it assured him he still had a pair to bind. Around Kronos you could never be quite sure if things were going to stay that way. It made for some unforgettable blowjobs but even Caspian occasionally wandered around with one reassuring hand clasped to his groin.

Thoughts of Caspian and his unsavoury habits helped keep Methos from reacting. If Kronos wanted confirmation of his skill then Methos was going to make him work for it...

The raiding season would be over soon and when they returned to the city he would leave his slave there to serve. If she was still alive then. If she wasn't he would have to train a new one anyway. Decision made he put her from his mind...

_...Kronos' strong fingers fighting his tongue to lead the invasion force into Methos' body. Sparks of pleasure more potent than quickening fire dancing across Methos' nerves..._

They should strike south the next year. It would be difficult to keep Kronos and Caspian in check until they could exchange tribute for conquest but it had been long enough since they had ridden beyond the mountains that they would not be expected. Anat could manage for a decade without their presence and it was time they checked what changes had happened outside the world they had created. Silas would like seeing those brown, furry tree creatures again. Everyone except Caspian had thought it was funny when one of the little scamps had tried to steal a burning torch only to drop it in pain and fear onto Caspian's tent...

_...pulled back and up by strong hands on his hips. Away from the cradling comfort of the fur but better positioned so that Kronos could spread him wide only to fill him with the pleasure of a thousand lapping touches..._

Could one combine an application of raw grain spirits over wax to make it appear as if they or their weapons were ablaze? That would create a nice combination of fear and confusion. Especially for a dawn or dusk raid. The idiots would believe that the fire of the sky rode the land. It would hamper their night vision but everyone would be too sleepy or terrified to put up any resistance. Have to check how the horses would react...

_...Calluses rough against his skin just like he needs. Sword calluses, rein calluses... studs of hardness scraping against the soft hardness of his cock. He refuses to give his brother the pleasure of making him thrust and he has no intention of moving so much as a hair's breadth away from Kronos' diving, swirling tongue. All he can do is wait, caught between hand and mouth, and prey to Gods they destroyed long since that the exquisite torture ends soon and goes on forever..._

He needed to see about breeding his current mount. She's a good mare, intelligent and brave. Since those traits had bred true in her from her sire he had good hopes for her offspring. He just had to find a grey stud worthy of her. All the more reason to leave the desert for a bit; he had no interest in mating her with a camel...

_...His breath hisses between his teeth as he fights the urge to scream at Kronos to take the damned tie off his balls and let him come. He wants to scrabble for it. To push Kronos' hand from his cock and pump himself to completion. Or, better, to force that teasing bastard to make good on the promise that fingers and tongue have branded on his body. He will make Kronos pay, make him squirm, make him scream... make the son of a lame mule go hours, go days, without relief while he watches Methos tend to himself. Days, he will keep Kronos like this for days..._

A few more days and then strike camp. The watering hole was running low and even putting the slaves on half rations would mean hardship for the horses soon. Better to start out for the rocks while they still had spare. From there they could raid for the rest of the season. As well as water it would provide some shelter from the sand-demons and their wild dances...

Methos could feel the tight heat concentrating deep inside him, just waiting for its chance to invade every part of him and consume him in flames. It gathered with ever-increasing speed, sucking every sensation from him as a fire sometimes seemed to just before it became an inferno. Kronos had certainly lit enough fires, both figuratively and literally, in their years together. Methos welcomed the abandon knowing that even if Kronos reverted to his more normal behaviour at this point it would just be fuel for the blaze. Part of him clamoured for that knife-edge of pleasure. The need for more, for release, drove everything from his mind except that indefinable but insuppressible instinct that managed his survival. And even that was focused on whether pleas, demands or silence would get the reaction he desired from his seductive tormentor, or just the removal of the thrice-cursed cloth that was effectively preventing his release.

Kronos groaned, a deep throaty purr of need, and Methos knew he had won. The leather rag fell away so swiftly he almost came from the suddenness of its release.

"Over!" There was no hint of any playfulness in Kronos' voice and Methos obeyed. There was a nuance of madness in the tone which Methos recognised. Kronos in this mood would fuck him unwilling, dead or headless and only when satiated would he even think to care which it had been.

The heavy air clung lingeringly to his skin as he stretched out on his back. The fur beneath him felt slightly damp and unpleasant in a way it had not before Kronos' command had broken the connection it had had with him before. But then Kronos was pinning him again, astride his hips and bearing down on him with the desperation of a new chattel trying to spark tinder with two sticks. There was no finesse between them and Methos responded to the demanding passion with his own need. Dragging Kronos' face to his and biting at the rough lips even as Kronos kissed him. Methos wondered who was winning this round. He wasn't sure any more. He thought he was but Kronos might have decided to change the rules again without telling him. Or maybe they both were.

Finally, finally, he could give himself over to the storm that Kronos had brewed within him. He had no thoughts for the brother who drove him onward or the slave he knew was watching them both.

_The Beginning and End of Time._

In the world of feeling which Methos found himself within, there could be only one. Kronos was but a sense-memory and a touch along the way. Methos claimed his prize and, surrendering himself to the fervour, let it take him as it would. The sensations beat at him with the passion of a monsoon in the desert, uncompromising and inescapable. It was the exhilaration of riding a fast horse across good ground. The excitement of a good fight. The exoneration of a quickening. It was like he imagined flying would be. It was freedom and he revelled in it.

_Destroyed and Reborn._

He came back, panting and dazed to the sight of Kronos' predatory smile. And even that seemed reassuring. The jessed hawk could only fly so far and he wasn't ready to chase the sun past the ends of the earth and into the unknown beyond. One day he would leave and find refuge in the hidden, dark places where his brothers would not find him. But, for now, he still wanted to bask in the passion they shared. Still wanted to be needed with that dangerous, thrilling need.

_Sacrifice and God._

Methos smiled back at Kronos indolently, stretching and arching so that Kronos' erection slid over the semen slicked skin of his stomach and gave friendly nudges to his still sensitive groin. Some of the obsession was gone from Kronos' eyes, as if it had only required Methos' own release to bank the fire in both of them to more healthy levels. But Methos knew his brother's moods and playful could be just as dangerous as driven.

"You gone soft, Brother?" Kronos chuckled, pleasure at his accomplishment radiating from him in malevolent glee.

Methos smirked. "And yet somehow I am always back for more."

Kronos pushed against him, hips gliding through the damp residue of sex, before pulling back so that he could settle himself lower and between Methos' thighs. Methos said nothing but waited. He was laid open underneath his brother, still nerveless and compliant from his own climax. They were mirroring each other again, both caught in the strange parody that sometimes over took them. Methos' languid satisfaction was polluting Kronos' amusement just as Methos' desperation had been Kronos' goad. The wicked grin was still there but not all the promises it held were unpleasant.

Methos stayed quiet as Kronos worked his slow way over Methos' chest, licking and nibbling every inch until Methos' skin tingled. Kisses, a soft raining patter that made Methos think of how the afternoon's diversion had begun and where it would end, but the expected thrust did not come. Methos tried to stop the tension of anticipation tightening his body as well as constricting his heart.

_Sacrifice and God._

"Beloved one," Kronos whispered in his ear and Methos shivered. Elulmesh had called him that even as he lay dying in Methos' arms. Years, decades, lifetimes ago... and yet it was, Methos was sure, why Kronos used the endearment, "Beloved Mot".

_Destroyed and Reborn._

Not for the first time Methos allowed himself to be worshipped. His supplicant's offerings raising from death the ghost of desire; a slow twining coil that warned of a slower breaking. Methos bared his throat and wondered again if they could afford those extra days before they broke camp.

_The Beginning and the End of Time._

"And so did Mot submit to Baal" Kronos continued in that same soft, worryingly gentle voice.

And so Mot did.

**Author's Note:**

> That which is given in submission becomes a medium of defiance - Proverbs from Urim, Sumer.


End file.
